


Like I'm Gonna Lose You

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, Kisses, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, music inspired, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a nightmare about Sherlock falling to his death, of him dying on the operating table after being shot, of losing him all over again. He wakes, needing to be reassured that Sherlock is still with him. </p><p>~inspired by "Like I'm Gonna Lose You" by Meghan Trainor~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I'm Gonna Lose You

_-Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!_

_Sherlock stretches out his hand, fingers trembling. Even from the ground John could see him trembling. His voice, once calm and collected if a little wobbly, turned panicky. To appease him, John returns to his former post, where he stepped from the cab, eyes glued to the sky that held Sherlock Holmes._

_-Keep your eyes fixed on me!_

_As if John could look anywhere else. Could he ever look anywhere else after meeting Sherlock? Like a flower following the sun, he always looks to Sherlock. In this moment he is the flower staring at the sun, he is the worshipper at the altar of a god, he is the spectator at the site of a trainwreck. Immovable. Devoted. Awestruck._

_Sherlock’s arm slowly drifts back to his side. His fist clenches once, a gesture mirrored from John, their lives so intermingled that bits of themselves shined in each other. His curls tousle in the wind, his coat flapping gently around his legs. A deep breath, a gentle exhalation._

_-This phone call is...my note._

_A note? What did he mean a note? He couldn’t mean...he couldn’t mean a note like what Jennifer Wilson scratched into the floor. He couldn’t mean everything he had told John, that he was a fraud, that he had lied, that he saw no way out. There was always a way out. John couldn’t have survived the shot in the shoulder, the blood in the desert, the encroaching loneliness, the friendly wink of the barrel, all for it to end at his feet._

_-That’s what people do don’t they? Leave a note?_

_God, he was really going to do it. He was going to jump. John would lose everything he had always wanted, what he had been too afraid to reach for before he had even come to terms with it. If he stretched out his hand would he be able to catch him? Would Sherlock let him?_

_-Goodbye, John._

_His line went dead. The radio silence an eerie harbinger of what was about to happen. A throwback to the crackling static of danger before a shootout back in the sands of Afghanistan. Sherlock tossed his phone the side, he locked eyes with John and seemed to take a deep breath and prepare himself. John could feel his palm sweat, leaching the moisture from his mouth. His heart began to pump harder than he had ever felt before. He knew it was coming, helpless to stop it._

_A step taken, and it was all over._

_The world shifts and suddenly, St. Barts is gone, the bloody sidewalk is gone. John is pulled forward, a gravitational tug, and he is kneeling before Sherlock on that awful beige carpet in Magnussen’s office. Sherlock is sweating, twitching in pain, but his eyes are closed. They’re flickering beneath his eyelids, almost as if he’s trying to blink morse code at him, trying to speak without words. That’s fine, John will use his words instead. A second chance to save him._

_He calls for an ambulance and quick as you please, the gurney from St. Barts comes up beside him, and they whisk him away. John looks back to see the carpet stained a deep red. It’s a good color, John muses vaguely. Perhaps something he’d like to see in their own rooms at Baker Street._

_His head turns automatically to follow the gurney through the door and they are in the operating room. John shouldn’t be here. He knows he shouldn’t. Doctors don’t operate on their friends._

_But they’re not friends anymore, are they?_

_They’re so much more. John’s finally accepted it. But Sherlock doesn’t know. God, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know because John had Mary and he couldn’t bear to break two hearts so he broke just one. He broke the heart that broke his, thinking to himself that it was fair, he wasn’t the one who left, Sherlock did, but then again...Sherlock did it for him. To save him._

_Sherlock had saved his life. Over and over and over again and then Mary went and stole it. Both his and Sherlock’s. He knew, he knew to his core that it was Mary all along. Her reasoning was good, sound. After years of hindsight, he’d come to see that. But he never forgave her, had never stopped being angry with her._

_How many wishes in the world come true? Out of all the possibilities, out of all the wishes ever fervently whispered or screamed into the void, how many of them came true? To have his wish be granted, to have Sherlock back, only for him to be snuffed out again was too much to bear._

_John watches, detached, as tubes and monitors and hands all find their way into and onto Sherlock. Muffled words, talking about the man as if he is nothing more than a science experiment. Sherlock would appreciate that, he thought remotely._

_-Excessive blood loss, BP dropping, pulse slowing, asystole_

_No._

_God no._

_He can feel his leaden legs carry himself closer, pushing people aside, taking matters into his own hands. Always him. Everyone else gets it wrong. No one else but John can bring him back. Sherlock never wanted anyone else’s attention but his. Always his way. He places the paddles himself. One alongside Sherlock’s ribs, one above his heart where he had always longed to lay his head. Clear! The body -Sherlock- jolts. His hair flops over his eyes when his back hits the bed, his body settling heavily. Clear! Clear!_

_Nothing._

_Shock finally begins to trickle into his veins. He notices that they are alone in the operating room. When did that happen? John turns frantically, looking for any sign of life besides his own. He calls out, his voice being swallowed by the encroaching darkness surrounding them. The only light to be found is the OR light blaring it’s cold, clinical light on the two of them. It provides no comfort._

_John feels himself begin to shake, like his whole body has adopted his hand’s inability to be still. He is invalided entirely, and Sherlock is the cause of it. He reaches out, cupping Sherlock’s unresponsive face and is greeted with cold marble._

_His fingertips desperately call out for a pulse and receive no answer. He has an absurd thought, that this is all just a dream, just a fairytale. Kisses end fairytales. It would be just like he was sleeping. Sleeping Beauty. One kiss and it would be all over._

_He can feel the tears trace their way down his cheeks as he gently lifts Sherlock’s head, bending his own to meet him. He doesn’t hesitate. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s, desperate to feel anything other than burning ice underneath him._

_He whispers Sherlock’s name, as if simply calling him could bring him back. He feels like Orpheus calling for Eurydice, pleading with Hades to give him back the man he loves. He tries once more, kissing Sherlock and pushing every emotion he has left into him, desperate for a reaction._

_Nothing._

_Grief is a funny thing. It’s nothing like anger that charges in and boils the seas. It’s nothing like happiness in the way it skips gently into your life one moment and out the next like a leaf on the wind. No, grief steals gently into you like the coming of night, slowly curling around the light until there is nothing left but emptiness. He can feel every stitch of his heart tear in that moment, slowly, and then all at once, like a rip in a curtain. One harsh tug to get it going, and then it becomes all too easy to finish the job, ripping everything he held dear to shreds._

_His throat closes, not ready for the outpouring of emotion he’s about to release. He is a man bottled up for far too long to break quietly. A sob, a broken sound no more than a croak, escapes just before he breaks down entirely. His eyes flood and blur with tears as he bends his head to Sherlock’s, touching their foreheads. The last shreds of feeling leave him in one wretched cry._

_“SHERLOCK!”_

 

John jolts awake. At first all he’s able to see is the blank ceiling of his bedroom. His breathing is erratic, his body cold with sweat and clammy. He can feel himself shaking with raw emotion, the dream still clinging to the edges of his consciousness. He forces himself to take a deep breath, eyes closed. In through the mouth, out through the nose. Once, twice, three times. He turns his head on the pillow and opens his eyes so he can have proof that Sherlock is healthy, whole, alive.

And he recoils to find his place beside John empty.

Panic spikes through him. His hand reaches out to stroke the rumpled sheets to find them cold. Sherlock had been in bed when he fell asleep, how could he not be here when he awoke? He promised! He promised that he’d be there when John woke. Was that the dream? Was Sherlock coming back to him all a dream? Did Sherlock die on the pavement? Or on the operating table with his wife’s bullet in him?

Finding Sherlock, putting to rest his fears, is now the priority. He rises from their bed, the bed that Sherlock once hoarded all to himself and now shared with John, and goes in search of his...his what? If Sherlock was dead that would mean they were no longer flatmates, best friends, lovers, partners. John had wanted to propose, to cement things and make honest men of them both. Has he lost his chance?

Desperate need courses through John as he stumbles from the bedroom, still in shock from his dream and half asleep. His feet faintly register the cold but he ignores it. Nothing else matters but finding Sherlock.

The second the door slams open, John’s clumsy movements propelling the door into the wall, Sherlock’s voice rings out for him. “John?”

John’s legs crumble with relief, _it really was a dream._

Hearing him slump to the floor Sherlock appears from the kitchen, rushing to his side. “John, John, tell me what’s wrong?” His hands bracket his shoulders, holding him firm and steady and John feels his throat close, staving off more emotion. “John, please, what’s the matter?”

“You were dead,” John whispers hoarsely.

“John?”

“You were gone,” John explains. His breath comes rapidly as he tries to get everything out without breaking. “You were gone and I panicked, I thought maybe you had left for good. Again.” He tugs at Sherlock’s arms until Sherlock joins him on the floor, kneeling beside him. “I needed...I needed-”

“You needed me to be here, to see,” Sherlock finishes for him. John nods and Sherlock understands. He hugs John close, squeezing him tightly for a moment before trying to release him. John clutches at him tighter, silently willing him to stay. “Shh,” Sherlock coos. “I’m not going anywhere. But your knees will be angry with you if we kneel here much longer. Can you stand?”

John thinks about it and after a few seconds he nods his head. Bracing against each other, they stand. John refuses to release his hold on Sherlock, even if he does loosen it so they can move. Sherlock lets him hold tight as he guides them both to their bed. John slides in first, his hand moving from Sherlock’s shoulder, down his arm to hold his hand while the man slides in next to him. Using his free hand, Sherlock pulls the duvet up around them and then, only then, does John invade Sherlock’s space once more to cover him with his body.

Sherlock lays back against the bed, head cradled in the pillow as his arms and legs become a flesh and bone cage for John’s body. John settles heavily atop him, his arms curving underneath his back to pull him close. One hand curling around his trim waist, the other snaking into his hair to let his fingers feel the warm hair there.

Warmth.

The Sherlock in his dream was marble. Cold, a beautiful imitation of life but without the spark of breath. This Sherlock, the one in his arms, was warm, his pulse point beating beneath his lips as he buries his nose into Sherlock’s neck. His hands wind around John’s torso so that they can smooth the tension in his body with gentle, swirling patterns.

Like fingertips disturbing the glassy surface of the water, Sherlock’s movements gently break the tension that John is holding in his body. Incrementally, he relaxes. His breathing slows and his hold of Sherlock loosens. He keeps himself in place over him, protecting him from any unseen threats and proving to himself that Sherlock isn’t going anywhere.

“You dreamt of my falling,” Sherlock says softly after John has fully relaxed against him.

“And of the bullet,” John confesses.

“And you panicked. Because I was gone.” John nods silently. “I’m sorry. You were sleeping soundly when I left. Had I known you were having a nightmare I would have stayed.”

“Not your fault,” John whispers. They both know it’s not exactly true. The events that caused his nightmares were all Sherlock’s doing. Well, Sherlock’s and Mary’s. But he wasn’t the one who put those dreams in his head, torturing him. “I thought I had lost you again.”

Sherlock kisses the top of John’s head. “Not quite so soon, John.”

“I don’t know if I could recover a second time.”

“You’re stronger than I. Your death would destroy me,” Sherlock told him. “You already survived mine.”

“Barely.” His breath hitches, thinking of the months without Sherlock, the ones before Mary. He remembers all those times that the gun seemed a friendlier fate than the crushing loneliness. “I came so close, Sherlock.” He kisses Sherlock’s neck, feeling his pulse flutter beneath his lips.

“I promise you, John. I will not voluntarily leave again.” He gently prods John’s face up so they can see each other’s eyes. “Please believe me.”

And he does. God, does John believe. He had always believed in Sherlock Holmes.

“I do,” John tells him. He kisses Sherlock insistently, deliberately. Their lips are dry and John pulls back to lick his own before dipping low again to recapture Sherlock’s. They kiss lazily, reinforcing each other’s presence. Lips are nibbled, sucked, plumped by friction. Tiny flickerings of tongue breach mouths as puffs of breath ghost across cheeks. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, John’s hands move to cradle Sherlock’s head while Sherlock’s grasp tight to his shoulders. Their need simmers, just below the surface, reined in before it spiraled out of control and lost the sweetness that they craved.

Eventually, the need subsides. John feels wiped, drained, exhausted. He slips off Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock stretches his stiff back beside him before rolling onto his side to eye John. Silence envelopes them but it was comfortable. Sleep beckons and John wants to heed the call but he doesn’t want to lose sight of Sherlock. Even though he was assured that Sherlock was very much alive, he doesn’t want to think about losing him for a single moment.

Sherlock seems to understand. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to John’s forehead, one to each of his eyes, then finally his lips. The sweetness pours over him, washing John with warm love. Sherlock then closes the small space between them, laying John’s head against his heart so John could hear its beat while he slept. “I’ll be here when you wake,” Sherlock promises.

John is too tired to argue. He allows himself to be enveloped in Sherlock, tangling their legs together and wrapping his arms securely around him so that they were one solid piece. He closes his eyes. He matches his breathing to Sherlock’s, their chests rising and falling in time. His heart pounds strongly beneath John’s ear, that muffled thump accompanying each beat. It soothes him. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax, knowing that the next time he wakes he wouldn’t be alone.


End file.
